In the cabin, he follows it
with a paper towel
in his cupped hands.

I would have considered the holes
the moth would eat in my sweaters,
and swatted it with the swatter
I keep close in summer
like a gunslinger with his gun.

My son, eyes trained on the fluttering,
steps closer, closer, capturing the moth
in the gentle trap of his palms,
then lets it out the door.

It flies straight into a web,
a spider making its way toward it.

Do not think my son’s rescue doesn’t matter?
It’s his nature.